


painting the town as black as sin (begging to get done wrong again)

by somethingdifferent



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Drug Dealing, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: After her parents' death, Wendy Darling finds The Lost Boys. Or they find her.[wendy darling/peter pan; modern drug dealers au]





	1. sometime the wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I don't live in England, so I'm not even attempting the slang, the references, etc. Here is an American Peter Pan and Wendy Darling. Pls donut kill me.
> 
> This'll be a couple of chapters, but probably not, like, a whole novel. Hope you enjoy!

When the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.

** CORMAC MCCARTHY **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After their parents die, they need money, and the boy everybody calls the Pan hears about it. Wendy shouldn't have been so surprised. The Pan hears about everything: both what is and what isn't to his use. If he hadn't heard about it, that would have been much scarier.

The boy everybody calls the Pan hears that Wendy Moira Angela Darling needs money, and that is why one cold April afternoon his right-hand man Felix appears outside the door of her family's apartment (the government housing, leaks in the ceiling, windows sealed shut and smeared with grime, bathtub faucet eternally dripping into the rusting porcelain) and offers her a position.

"A little birdie told me you need a job," he says by way of explanation. "And you don't have much in the way of credentials, it seems. What's your birthday anyway? I know it's not '98 like you've been telling the social worker. You don't look a day over sixteen. Remind me, darlin', what happens to your brothers if they find out you've been lying about your age?"

"What do you want?" she hisses, folding her arms. The tactic seems to backfire; it only draws Felix's attention to her chest, and he leers for a moment before his eyes snap back up to hers.

"Normally," he says to her, leaning in close, much closer than he would need to considering the circumstances. Both of the boys are at school, and Wendy is aware that if she were to scream no one would hear her through the cinderblock walls. She suddenly notices Felix has eyes that seem sometimes blue and sometimes green, and it startles her for some unexplainable reason. She looks instead at his right ear. "Normally," he says, "the Pan likes to have boys out on the corners. Boys aren't as delicate as girls, you see."

"I see," Wendy says, steeling her voice very carefully. It takes all of her concentration not to squeak.

"But," Felix continues, drawling, "the Pan is very interested in having you on as one of his Lost Boys." He smiled, his mouth sharp and thin as a knife. "A Lost Girl, perhaps. The Pan is very interested indeed."

"Really," she says. Her mouth is flat.

"Really."

In the government housing, with the leaks in the ceiling and the windows sealed shut and the bathtub faucet leaking eternally, Wendy shakes Felix's hand and says yes, and that, as her mother would have said were she still alive, is all anyone has to say about that.

 

 

 

 

The Pan is, according to the teenage boy that sits outside of their building at times and talks to the neighborhood kids, a menace to society.

Wendy sits on the stairs just outside of the apartment building's door, her head lolled onto her shoulder as she squints up at the teenage boy. The boy, Neal, drinks coffee out of a stained mug, and he lets Michael have a taste of it before continuing. Michael makes a face, screwing up his mouth at the bitterness.

"You remember the gang from a few years ago, Wendy?" he says idly.

"The Pirates?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "The good old Jolly Rogers. Led by one James Hook. He controlled everything from the harbor to the train tracks, you know. Up until about six months ago - radio silence."

"What happened?" John says from the top of the steps, suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Well," Neal says, puffing up his chest, "about six months ago there was a bit of a -" He glances at Michael, suddenly realizing the ages of those present. "M-A-S-S-C-R-E. Over by their territory. They found over a dozen B-O-D-I-E-S and -" he leans forward, staring intently at Wendy, "a hand."

Wendy swallows, thinking of the boy with blonde hair in her doorframe. "And it was the Lost Boys?"

Neal nods solemnly. "The very same. And the hand, know whose it was?"

"Was it Hook's?" John asks.

"Right on the money." Neal glances around, as if checking to see if anyone had heard them. "You didn't hear it from me, though. Why'd you want to know about it anyway?"

Wendy is quiet for a moment. She nods up to John, his nose back in his torn social studies textbook. "He's turning thirteen soon, you know."

Neal furrows his brow. "You're worried about recruiting? Shit, they'd never take him anyway."

"You don't know that," she says. "Maybe they're lowering their standards."

Neal laughs. "I doubt it. They'd sooner put Michael on a corner. Or you."

"Sure," she says, picking at a hangnail. She miscalculates what she can peel off, and blood drips out of her fingernail, dripping onto the concrete steps. "You're probably right."

 

 

 

 

At the corner, a boy named Nibs gives her a handgun. The gun is very heavy in her hand, a lot heavier than Wendy expected. She tucks it into the back of her jeans and closes her eyes for a moment. Nibs runs through the list of things she needs to do for a deal: never give the heroin at the same time as the money, always count before handing anything over, the gun is a last resort, not a first response, don't fuck up. Whatever you do, he tells her, don't fuck up.

"Can't believe it," he mutters as he watches her first deal. The money feels strange in her hands, like she's never noticed before how much it feels like cloth.

"What?" she says, suddenly realizing Nibs had spoken.

"I can't believe he actually got a girl for this," Nibs says louder, sneering at her. "What a fucking joke. Do you even know how to use that thing?"

"Yes," Wendy says, voice cold. "And if I were you, I'd be a bit more careful."

"What?"

"Your boss came to me specifically," she says, trying to sound more confident than she is. "Do you think that happens for just anyone?"

Wendy doesn't realize until she's said this out loud that it might be true. Nibs mumbles something of an apology back to her and leans against the brick wall behind them, watching her progress more carefully now. Wendy ignores the feeling of eyes boring holes into her back.

 

 

 

 

Michael doesn't question the increase of food in their pantry. He loves it when Wendy brings home brand new pens and pencils for school, shiny chocolate coins from the grocery store, even a teddy bear, once. Michael grows rounder and rosier and happier, and a weight seems to have been lifted from his shoulders.

John seems warier of their sudden wealth, and when he gets on the school bus in the morning he ducks to avoid her kiss, he sits with his back away from the window so she can't wave goodbye to him.

"I got this new job," she tells Neal one afternoon, as she waits for the bus. She doesn't trust Neal enough to tell him the details; she may be a little under seventeen, but she's not that stupid. "John doesn't like my boss, much, you know? He doesn't trust the money."

"What, are you tricking?"

"What? No, Jesus, Neal." Wendy almost laughs. "I'm working for this used car salesman. Kind of a sleazy guy, you know?" She hesitates for a moment, considering how much she can say. How much she can afford to say. "They're paying me under the table."

Neal huffs out a breath. "Shit, that's nothing. You could be tricking. John'll get over it, once he sees how much better life is with a little money."

"Won't need the food stamps," she says idly.

"That, and you can get a TV. A cell phone."

"Got one of those," she says. "Bought it first thing."

When the bus pulls up to the corner, Wendy takes Michael by the hand and lets John walk past her into the building. Neal winks at Wendy as she walks through the door and smiles.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll talk to your brother, set him straight."

"Thanks, Neal," Wendy says, letting the door fall shut behind her. Michael tugs at her hand, pulling her down the hall, and Wendy watches as Neal turns around and walks in the other direction, back home to his father.

 

 

 

 

It happens two months in, long after Nibs has stopped shadowing her and left her on the corner to her own devices. Wendy is robbed, gun held to her head point blank. She can feel the barrel of it cool and hard against her temple and prays they won't pull the trigger. Before her mother's death she had been an ER nurse, and she told Wendy stories about botched executions. If they hold it against your temple just right, she says, it only blows out your retinas, and poof - you're blind. Wendy gives the boy all of the money from the day, hundreds in cash, and the boy with the gun points the gun at her leg and shoots.

 

 

 

 

By the time she gets back to the apartment, after nightfall, after Nibs had driven her to a vet (who handles wounds like this for them, he explained, but it's going to cost you), after the stitches and bottle of pills and bandage wrapped so tight around her skin it must be leaving marks, Felix is waiting for her.

"I need to make dinner," she calls to him, but Felix only beckons for her to walk down a dark alley to were he waits with his car. And Wendy, knowing it is the lesser of two evils (one: let them find her willing, or two: let them find her _unwilling_ ), follows him.

They drive for what feels like a long time, until Wendy no longer recognizes the buildings outside of her window. When they finally stop, it is seemingly at random, in a neighborhood that looks very much like her own, with tall, thin houses pressed together like dominoes. 

"In here," Felix says, pointing to a house with iron bars curling around every window. Wendy supposes they must be squatting, seeing the unkempt lawn, the concrete steps littered with broken bottles. Wendy goes up the stairs first, trying not to look behind her. Her breath is caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, heart beating fast and hard.

Since their parents' death almost a year earlier, Wendy had learned to ration everything. Food, toothpaste, clothing, soap, plates, forks and knives - Wendy had even learned how to ration herself, keep separate the things she would need later. Every breath was slow and measured, every stab of hunger staved off until she felt she might faint from exhaustion. Yet even after all this time, her heart beats wildly and wastefully in her chest; her heart has no such concept of rationing itself.

"The Pan is inside," Felix tells her, pointing to the door, black and peeling with paint.

"You're not coming with?" There is a note of panic in Wendy's voice that she cannot wish away.

"He asked to see you," he replies by way of explanation.

When Wendy still doesn't move, her feet rooted to the ground, Felix gives her a push, nearly toppling her over into the door. Wendy takes a step forward, and then another step. She pushes the door open, and it creaks loudly. She doesn't look back at Felix this time, instead walking further into the house, through the front hallway.

Walking into what must be the living room, Wendy can see there is no real furniture. There are a couple of folding chairs and crates stacked haphazardly against the wall. She is alone in the room; Felix hadn't told her where in the house the Pan would be. She had assumed, for some reason, that he would be waiting for her.

"Wendy Moira Angela Darling."

Wendy jumps at his voice, turning so fast her ponytail whips into her own face. Across the room is a man - no, a boy would be more accurate, he can't be much older than her - as thin as a reed. He stands on cigarette legs and smiles at her, and even his smile is as thin as a knife. It cuts across his face. Wendy clears her throat, trying to be brave. She feels like a little girl again, playing dress-up with her mother's clothes, but her mother is dead and Wendy isn't playing pretend anymore.

"You wanted to see me." Her voice is brisk and clear, an imitation of what she's seen on TV, what she's seen her own mother say.

"Hello, Wendy-bird," the boy says, still the same dangerous smile on his face. He sits on one of the folding chairs, his long long legs stretching out in front of him. "Sit down. You shouldn't be standing on that leg."

Wendy takes a breath, watching the Pan with wary eyes. After a moment, she takes the chair across from his, careful not to look away. The boy's smile only grows impossibly wider, and he leans closer to her, glass crunching under his black boots. Reflexively, Wendy leans back, the same way she would if she had seen a snake slithering through the grass.

"My name is Peter," he says, holding out his hand for her to shake. Wendy takes it in hers only briefly, before dropping it back like a stone. "It's wonderful to finally meet you."

"Likewise," she replies softly, the words barely carrying across the small space between them. 

Peter smiles again, but this time it is different - a smirk. Peter's eyes are large and almost black as he looks at her, up and down. Wendy's stomach twists, her heart pounding against her ribs. Inside her shoes, her toes curl.

"Great," he says. "We have a lot to talk about."

 

 

 

 

 


	2. like a pair of jaws

She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg; she is a sealed vessel; she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane; she is a closed system; she does not know how to shiver. She has her knife and she is afraid of nothing.

[...]

The forest closed upon her like a pair of jaws.

** ANGELA CARTER **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At home, Wendy washes the dishes that she got for a dollar-fifty at Goodwill. Michael and John are asleep in the room that is more like a closet, the door trapped by the bed they pull down. John had said it was a fire hazard. Wendy had said it was better than nothing and poured salt onto her small cut of roast beef.

Behind her, Peter strolls up and down the living room. The room is small; with his legs, it takes him only four paces to cross the length of it. He doesn't say anything to her as she cleans. She can hear him, at times, pause in his pacing, hear the click of his shoes on the floor. She imagines him watching her, how he would consider the back of her head, her curly brown hair. She imagines wearing the habit of a nun, so that Peter can't see any part of her. She thinks, unreasonably, that he'd be able to see her anyway.

Wendy scrubs and scrubs at the cheap plates, the cheap forks and knives, until her fingers begin to ache from the exertion. Then she turns around and faces him.

 

 

 

 

"So," he says in the abandoned house, "how much did you lose? Try to be precise.""

She straightens her back as much as she can - as much as she dares. "250. And some change."

Peter whistles, considering the glass littering the floor. It glitters in the moonlight coming in from the window, like stars on the dusty floorboards. "Busy day."

"Yes."

"And you paid the price nicely, didn't you." He looks at her leg for a beat too long. Wendy shifts in the folding chair, trying not to be obvious. Peter smirks. "It hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn't it."

The Pan, Wendy thinks, has a habit of never asking questions. Every sentence ends in a flat sound, as if it were a command.

"Yes," she says slowly. "It hurts."

"It's a good pain," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Trust me, after this, you're gonna take this work a lot more seriously."

"I took it seriously before." Wendy can't help but bite out the words, her face twisted in anger. "I live here, I know this. It's not some game to me." Like it seems to be to you, she doesn't add. But it's as if the Pan can hear her think it. His face splits into a grin.

"That's good," he says, his voice too cheerful for his next words. "That's very good, Wendy-bird."

Wendy decides not to ask him about the nickname he seems to have given her. For a while, Peter only looks at her, his eyes glinting darkly. Wendy sneaks a glance at her watch; she's already an hour late. When he sits forward, she almost jumps out of her skin, covering her wrist with her palm.

"Wendy-bird," he says, "am I keeping you from something?"

"My brothers," she says lamely. "I'm late. They'll worry."

"Not a problem." He stands, clapping his hands together. At the sound, Wendy flinches. "We mustn't keep you, must we?"

She furrows her brow. "I can go?"

"We'll both go! Come on, darling, I'll give you a ride."

For a moment, Wendy stares at him; she wonders if darling is meant as a pet name or as her last name. She doesn't ask. Peter seems to be able to call her everything but Wendy. Finally, she finds her voice, and it comes out of her voice in a high-pitched crack. "What?"

"Well, carpooling, right? Save the planet. We can discuss the matter of you paying me back after dinner." Peter takes a step closer to her abruptly, and the movement is so sudden and so fluid that it frightens Wendy for half an instant, and she closes her eyes, as she would if she had dropped a plate and it crashed to the ground, as she did when she received the phone call from the hospital nearly six months ago. When she opens her eyes, the Pan is staring at her, his face blank and eyes black and gleaming.

"I -" she begins, but she cannot think of what else to say. I don't want you there, I don't want to do this, I don't want John and Michael to see you, I don't I don't I don't.

"I'm sure you'll be a welcoming host. And I'm sure you've been waiting to hear my plan for your payment. I didn't get the Lost Boys to where they are by letting bygones be bygones. Or by letting go of 250. It doesn't seem like a lot, but trust me, dear, it adds up over time." Peter takes another step toward her, and this time Wendy steps back. Even so, the space between them is small. She can see his chest rising and falling with breath and the way that his pulse beats in his neck. This close, she thinks, he looks younger. She realizes at once that his thinness, the sharp angle of his shoulders and elbows, isn't something natural about him, that he has been starving for a long while, and that he is hungry. Even now.

"It adds up," he says again, still staring steadily at her.

"Okay," Wendy says, and then she repeats herself, trying to make the words sound more confident than they are. "Okay. I can set an extra place."

Peter smiles widely and steps to the side, beckoning for her to lead the way to the door. She walks slowly, careful to place her feet on the floor so that she doesn't make a sound. When they get outside, she considers how it might be if she were to run away from him, run as fast and as far as she can, take Michael and John with her to somewhere far away. She imagines getting in a car and driving, trying to outrun the sunrise, trying not to fall asleep at the wheel the way her father had. She waits for Peter on the porch and follows him to the car, and then she gets in the passenger's seat.

 

 

 

 

Before Mother and Father died, Wendy had gone to Catholic school. Her uniform was standard fair - crisp, white blouse, shining black shoes, grey plaid skirt. Wendy did nothing to dress the look up or down. She didn't roll up the elastic of her skirt to make it shorter nor did she unbutton one extra button on her blouse. After school, Wendy often went to the mall with her friends, all of them lithe and smiles on their faces fixed and bright. Wendy ignored the stares of men as they passed them, and she ignored the whistling they sometimes got as they walked along the sidewalk. Wendy ignored how the men stared at their legs and their necks and sometimes reached their hands out to grasp at their waists.

Before Mother and Father died, Wendy wore a cross on her neck every day, and she prayed before meals, her family seated around the mahogany table, their hands clasped together. After Mother and Father died and Wendy had moved the boys into the government housing, Neal warned her that child services wouldn't be able to keep John and Michael and her together. Neal warned her that Michael would be adopted by a family that wouldn't want to keep all of them, that John would grow up in the system, that Wendy would never see them again, if she didn't keep her mouth shut about her age.

After Mother and Father died, Wendy stopped praying. Wendy let the cross gather dust in her mother's jewelry box.

 

 

 

 

Her hands shake as she tries to fit the key into the lock. After a few attempts, Peter closes his hand around her and takes the key, unlocking the door easily.

"John, Michael," she calls as they walk inside. "I'm home."

John looks up from the stove, where he's boiling water in a rusting pot. His face scrunches into anger, and he rubs his hand over his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. "Where have you been? Who is this?"

"Wendy," Michael calls from under the table. He has several pieces of white paper in front of him, his chubby fingers wrapped around a crayon. Wendy can see the alphabet written over and over again, the letter R biggest of all, written backwards and with too many appendages. They must be practicing it in his kindergarten class, with the teacher who was so gentle in how she spoke to Wendy, her eyes full of sorrow when Wendy came to the conferences. "John is making mac n cheese."

"That's good," Wendy says, her voice high and light. "Thank you, John. I'm sorry I'm late - my car broke down on the way home so I called Peter. He works at the dealership, too."

John narrows his eyes. "I thought your car was here."

"No, it's not." Wendy isn't used to outright lying to either of her brothers, and she blinks fast as she speaks. "Maybe it's Neal's. You know how we have the same type of car, right, John?"

John seems to accept this as a response, and he shrugs before turning back to the pot.

"I already talked to my boss," Wendy continues, "and he said he can get us another car for half off. And it'll be better than the old one. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Can it play movies?" Michael asks from the floor. "Louis in my class says his stepdad has a car and it plays movies. We can watch _Paw Patrol_."

"Of course," Peter says before Wendy can respond. He walks over to Michael and crouches so that he can see him under the table. Wendy bristles, but she doesn't say anything about it. "Our boss is great. He said Wendy can have any kind of car she likes."

"Not any car," she says. She wants to drag Peter out of her house, she wants to claw his eyes out. "They only have used cars, Peter, you know that. John, I can finish making the food. Don't worry."

She crosses the room, turning her back to Peter. She can hear him whispering to Michael, commenting on his handwriting.

"Why didn't you call Neal?" John mutters sullenly as he steps to the side. "Neal could've picked you up."

"Neal wasn't answering his phone," Wendy lies more easily this time. "Maybe his dad grounded him again." She glances around the living room behind her, trying to see if Peter is listening. He doesn't seem to be, his gaze focused entirely on Michael's paper. "Peter is staying for dinner. He hasn't eaten yet. So be nice."

"I'm always nice," John protests.

"I know," Wendy says, not adding _but Peter isn't_. She squeezes her younger brother's shoulder before he wriggles out from under her arm, murmuring something about doing homework in the room. "Michael," Wendy calls, "go get me the milk."

"Why can't John do it?" Michael whines. "He's closer."

"Michael," Peter interrupts before Wendy can respond. Wendy turns around, watching as he stands up slowly, staring at her all the while. "Help your sister with dinner."

Michael groans audibly, but gets up to give Wendy the milk as instructed. After he goes back to his hiding place under the table, Peter saunters to the stove, standing just behind Wendy as she stirs the macaroni.

"Make yourself useful." She can't help the bite in her voice as she speaks to Peter, and she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. It probably isn't advisable to boss him around, but Wendy has always had that streak of rebellion in her. "Get the garlic bread from the freezer and make it, okay."

Peter meets her eyes, and, for a moment, all he does is stare. "Alright," he says finally, moving to the fridge. As he passes her, Peter brushes the small of her back with his hand, his fingers catching at her shirt. Wendy suppresses a shiver at the touch. "Whatever you need, darling."

 

 

 

 

Sitting around the dinner table, Peter cracks jokes that have Michael in stitches. John is reluctant in his laughter, but by the end of the meal even he has a smile on his face. Wendy looks at Peter as he speaks, staring as if he is a puzzle she can solve, something she can wrap her fingers around and crack open.

She thinks about the boys she sees sometimes at the end of the block she works, the ones who yell out a signal whenever they see a plainclothes cop, who run to and from her and the house where they keep the supply. She thinks about Nibs and his friend Slightly and the other boys she hasn't met yet, standing silent and brooding at the corners, guns tucked into the back of their jeans. She wonders if any of their parents know where they are when they go out.

She wonders if Peter tells all of them jokes, too. She wonders if he charms their families. She wonders if he has practiced that perfect, friendly smile in the mirror until he can wear it on his face as easily as a mask.

 

 

 

 

"Who's Neal?" Peter asks the question directly when Wendy turns around.

She furrows her brow. She hadn't expected such a simple question first. "Neal's our neighbor. Sometimes he comes and sits on the stoop and talks to us." Wendy is about to ask why he wanted to know, but she bites her tongue, hard, before she oversteps her bounds.

Peter nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He starts walking toward the sink, his steps slow and deliberate. "Now," he says, "brass tacks."

Wendy watches as he comes closer, keeping herself from shrinking when he is near enough to tower over her. "Okay."

"You have a few options," Peter says. "So listen carefully. One -" He holds up a finger on his bony hand. "I can pull the money from your cut on the corner for the next few weeks. That means you'll be getting quite a bit less, which means you'd have to make quite a bit more a day if you want to keep up. Interest, you know. I could take out less at a time if you want, but that means you'll be in debt longer. And I'd avoid that, of course." He pauses and holds up a second finger. "Two: you can try to get the money back yourself. But unfortunately, that'll have to be a solo endeavor. I'd rather not risk any of my men on something as trivial as 250. You can see my problem."

Wendy decides not to mention that he'd still be risking her. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying to seem calmer than she feels. "Or?" she says.

Peter's mouth turns up slightly at the corners. "Smart girl," he says. "Always hold out for the best deal. Three, last option: you can make something of a lateral move. You wouldn't be on the corner anymore, dealing. It pays a little more, too, but you'll make the same amount until you pay off your debt. Shouldn't take more than a week or two."

Wendy blinks. "You're giving me a better job for losing money and getting shot?"

Peter looks her up and down, his eyes drifting from her ankles to her eyes. This time, Wendy can't stop the flush that creeps onto her neck from his scrutiny. For a moment, she can swear that Peter smirks at her as he leans back on the table behind him. "Hasn't your mother ever told you it's not polite to look a gift horse in the mouth." When Wendy says nothing, he continues, "I think you can still be a great asset to our little group, even if the... _less savory_ elements of the work are difficult for you. I like to think of myself as someone who doesn't waste talent."

Wendy folds her arms over her chest. Peter's eyes are fixed on her face. "What's the lateral move?"

"You'll handle the money. I heard you were quite the little scholar at St. Mary's, and it just so happens that a position has opened up."

She pauses for a moment. "What were the circumstances of this position just opening up?"

"He's serving ten to fifteen," Peter says casually. "We were using outside help for a while - as you might have guessed, numbers are not a strong suit for many of my Lost Boys. And of course, I can't touch any of the money. But turns out Mr. Smee had quite a few side endeavors as well, including a contract with the Jolly Rogers. Among others."

Wendy nods slowly, thinking it over.

"So, Wendy-bird," Peter says quietly. Even so, his voice seems loud in the quiet of the kitchen. Wendy can't even hear noise from the street the way she normally can. "Do we have a deal?" He holds out his hand for her to shake, the same way Felix had almost two months earlier. This time, Wendy doesn't hesitate before shaking on it.

Peter grins, his smile the smile of a wolf.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. some kind of murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooo sorry for the space between updates! i don't like to pressure myself into updating on a set timeline, so updates may have irregular spaces in between them. i recently graduated, so it's been a hectic few weeks to say the least. hopefully i'll be able to write a bit faster for future chapters. hope everyone enjoys this!

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

** RICHARD SIKEN **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The one thing Wendy almost hadn't been able to bear was pawning her mother's wedding ring. It had been days with the fridge empty, John and Michael eating only at school and Wendy eating only what she could find in the neighbors' trash, and little at that. Wendy pawned her mother's wedding ring to pay for groceries for the next two weeks.

Three months later, after Felix came to her door, Wendy tried to find the ring again at the pawn shop to buy back, but the man behind the counter said he'd already sold it. Then he had smiled wide at her and asked if she would like to sell him anything else, anything else, anything at all.

 

 

 

 

The Pan likes to change the location of their operations at least every three weeks. If not more.

Wendy spends most of her day alone. There is always a Lost Boy posted outside of the door to wherever she is that day, standing patiently still, staring patiently forward. She learns quickly that they have been instructed not to talk to her. The boys are never younger than her, but they never look much older either. Sometimes, she can hear conversations happening outside of her door. Sometimes she recognizes the voices - Slightly, Nibs, one of the twins - and sometimes she doesn't. Once, she hears Felix's voice, quiet and calm, but she doesn't dare try to eavesdrop. There would be nothing worse, she thinks, than getting caught by Felix. She isn't even as afraid of the Pan, but there is something about Felix's eyes.

She spends her days with more money than she could have ever imagined and with a paper and pen dividing and multiplying and adding and subtracting and making predications and calculating percentages and graphing results for one day, one week, one month separated by hours, half-hours, minutes, seconds, half-seconds, quarter-seconds, and so on. And so on.

Wendy doesn't even know where it goes once they take it from the room. She thinks maybe it wouldn't be prudent to ask.

 

 

 

 

Michael is writing capital R's on old newspapers at the kitchen table, which is why Wendy notices it. Wendy had told him not to use clean white paper anymore. While John waits for the chicken to cook in their ancient oven, Wendy gently pulls Michael's newspaper away when she recognizes one of the pictures on the page.

Wendy bites her tongue as she stares at the face of the boy who stole money from her three months ago, his photograph under the caption LOCAL TEEN DEAD IN EXECUTION-STYLE KILLING. In the photograph, the boy is smiling so wide Wendy can see his crooked incisors. The newspaper is dated from nearly three months ago.

She crumples the newspaper into a ball, her fingers shaking.

"Hey," Michael protests as she throws it into their overstuffed trashcan. "I was practicing."

"Use another paper," Wendy snaps, and before Michael or John can react she takes the keys for the new car (brand new, with a video player, just like Michael wanted, just like Peter said) and mumbles something about getting more groceries before dinner.

She slams the door shut behind her.

 

 

 

 

Her mother's wedding ring had been an heirloom. It had been in the family for over ninety years. It had survived three marriages, four wars, depressions and bankruptcies. It had been meant for one of them to wear in their own marriage, once all of this was over.

And Wendy had lost it over two weeks of groceries.

For months, she goes back to the pawn shop every week, hoping to find it again, but, day after day after day, nothing is there.

 

 

 

 

Wendy hadn't intended to go to the grocery store, so once she gets there she finds herself doing nothing but wandering up and down the aisles. The store is bright with fluorescent lights that buzz and hum over her head. Outside, the night is dark, and the windows are black compared to the light inside the building. Wendy picks out cookie dough from the freezer aisle and holds it in her hand, considering. She hasn't been able to make any desserts for the boys in over a year, not even on birthdays. An unnecessary expense.

She wonders who killed the boy that shot her. Peter wouldn't get his hands dirty with something so petty, she thinks. He hasn't so much as shown his face around her since he offered her the job, and Wendy knows he wasn't exaggerating when he told her he couldn't touch the money. She overheard Slightly telling a younger boy that the reason they changed location so often was to keep the police from ever establishing any significant patterns with them. Slightly had said that he didn't even know if the police were trying to nail them for anything; it was only Peter being careful.

She wonders if the boy was Peter being careful.

Wendy takes the cookie dough with her down the rest of the aisle. Three dollars. She can afford three dollars.

At the end of the aisle, she stops short once she notices him standing across the room, using a self-checkout machine. Ravioli, macaroni and cheese, frozen pizza, frozen vegetables - the only food not preprepared are a carton of eggs and a box of butter. Wendy is frozen, her feet rooted to the floor. Peter looks up, smiles brightly, and slowly raises his hand in a wave.

 

 

 

 

Neal looks hard at her as she settles heavily onto the stoop.

"Where are you working again?" he asks softly.

"A dealership in town," she says, picking at her nails. Her mother always hated when Wendy did that. She said it was a terrible habit. "Why?"

"Are you lying to me, Wendy? You can tell me the truth."

Wendy turns and faces Neal, looking at him steadily. His face is awash with concern for her, his hands fidgeting in his lap. She remembers that Neal's father is involved with the dealers in the city, somehow, that it was the reason that he was hardly ever at home, that it was what killed his mother. She has seen Neal's father talking quietly on the phone, in a way not quite soft enough to be unheard. She knows that Neal hates what his father does, and how his father does it, and his father.

"I'm telling the truth," she says. "And if you don't believe that, at least believe that I can handle myself."

She remembers Neal's father leaning on his cane, smiling a crooked, crocodile grin as he speaks into a receiver.  _Do we have a deal, dearie?_

"Okay," Neal says, seeming to accept defeat. He looks away from her, squinting instead at the light shining off the rusted-over windows of their building. "Okay."

 

 

 

 

She manages to get to her car before Peter catches up to her, laying a hand across her shoulder to turn her around. His groceries are gone, and she wonders briefly what he did with them. Wendy shakes off his grip as soon as she can, but Peter's cheerful expression doesn't falter.

"Wendy-bird," he says, "well isn't this a pleasant surprise. It's been too long, darling, too long."

"I have to get back," she says half-heartedly.

"Is it a family dinner? It was wonderful joining you last -"

"No," Wendy interrupts. Her voice shakes, but she refuses to look away from Peter's face. His eyes are unusually bright, his large black pupils shining like windows. "No, you're not coming to my house again."

At that, Peter's face does change. His mouth twists into a sneer, his jaw set. Like that, his shoulders and elbows and long thin legs, he looks sharp, like all of him could cut her. "Wendy," he says quietly. Almost dangerously, Wendy thinks, and she realizes he's never called her by only her name. As the Pan speaks he moves closer and closer to her, until she is nearly backed up against the wall of the building. "I know you may have some ideas about your being a favorite of mine, and truth be told, you are one of the more competent people I employ, and I like to think we get along rather well. But make no mistake, Wendy." Peter leans close to her, his mouth tilted into a smirk. Wendy wants desperately to close her eyes, but she keeps them open, staring back at him. "You are not a special case. Don't forget who it is you're working for."

Peter turns around. "So long, darling," he says, beginning to leave.

"You killed him," Wendy calls at his back suddenly. The words seem to leave her of their own volition, and Wendy stiffens in fear as Peter turns back around. "The boy. It was in the papers. I don't know how you found him, but you killed him."

He takes a step toward her. Something in her expression seems to stop him for a moment, because after that Peter does nothing but stare at her. "He stole from me."

"I know," Wendy says. "You lowered my wages. You owe me the money you took from my salary." At his blank expression, Wendy continues, her whole body shivering. "You got your money back, didn't you? I want what I am owed."

For a moment, he does nothing. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his lips, stretching and splitting his face like a wound. "Of course," he says, walking to her again. "Of course." When he reaches her, he seems to take up her entire field of vision. He doesn't even touch her. "I trust you'll be able to handle paying yourself back." Wendy nods, and he smiles again. "Well, then, that's all settled. I'll leave you to it."

"Peter," Wendy says, unable to stop herself from talking again, "one last thing."

He stares at her expectantly.

"You need to eat better," she says in a rush. "That stuff is terrible for you. Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to make food for yourself?"

Peter shakes his head. "You could always teach me," he says, his voice threaded with amusement.

"I only meant a cookbook," Wendy stammers out, "something like that."

"Thank you for the offer, Wendy-bird," he continues, as if she hadn't spoken. "You know, I think I'll take you up on it. Maybe you could have a class for all the boys. Most of them are fending for themselves, you know. Tell you what, we'll figure out a time to have a lesson, and then we'll go from there. How does that sound?" Wendy says nothing, only able to stare in shock as Peter grins at her. "Excellent. It's a bit unconventional, I know, but I think it'll be a great learning experience for everyone involved." Wendy nods mutely, and this time Peter does leave, waving at her as he walks away. "I'll see you soon, Wendy-bird."

For a moment, Wendy stands staring at the space where Peter was. Finally, she gets into her car, shutting the door heavily behind her. Only once she's inside does she realize she had forgotten the cookie dough, the cookie dough that would make everything alright for them, just for a little while.

"God damn it," she screams, slamming her hands against the steering wheel. "God fucking damn it!"

Wendy allows herself a moment to rest her head on her hands. Then she gets out of the car and walks wearily back to the store.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so i kind of have no idea where i'm going with this story anymore. we'll see how long it ends up being!


End file.
